


Tau

by pogopop



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brain Damage, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogopop/pseuds/pogopop
Summary: Matt's history of repeated head injuries catches up with him.PLEASE HEED THE TAGSThis fic deals with suicide, chronic brain injury and associated mental health issues.





	Tau

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS
> 
> This fic deals with suicide, chronic brain injury and associated mental health issues. 
> 
> Trigger warnings in end note.
> 
> __________
> 
> I watched S3... then somehow ended up here.
> 
> Thanks to SleepyMoritz for beta work and helpful suggestions.

Foggy wakes with a start. Tim’s head rests heavy in his elbow, and his fingers are tingling. There is a fine sweat beaded across the boy’s top lip, and his hair is damp. Foggy extricates himself carefully, sliding his arm out and placing Tim’s head gently on the pillow, kissing his brow. He tucks the blanket carefully around his small son, and tiptoes from the bedroom. He yawns and shakes himself awake as he walks into the lounge. Marci is bent over at the table, papers strewn around her. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun with tufts sticking out, indicating that she’s been rubbing her head in frustration. He drops a kiss on his wife’s crown on his way to the kitchen. “Your dinner’s in the microwave,” she says, not looking up from her work.

 

“Thanks, honey.” While the food is heating he pulls out his phone, flicks quickly through his emails to see if Matt’s sent over the info he’d promised this afternoon. Matt hadn’t come in to the office, again, saying something about needing to take the day.

 

Foggy carries his Thai to the couch and plops down, flicking the TV on, volume low. He can’t do his bit until Matt sends through what he’d promised, so he might as well catch up on  _ Doctor Who _ . 

 

He’s five minutes in when there’s a firm knock at the door. He waves Marci away, loath to interrupt her, pauses the TV and goes to answer. When he opens the door, it’s Brett standing there, dressed in work clothes. Foggy’s first thought is that Brett is too senior for house calls. His second is that he looks… slumped, somehow. Brett usually radiates confidence and authority, but he looks slightly like he’s coming apart at the seams.

 

And Foggy just knows. Matt’s dead. He puts a hand on the doorframe to hold himself up and shakes his head. “No, Brett. No.”

 

“Foggy.” Brett reaches out and grasps his upper arm. “Is Marci home?” Marci herself appears in the hallway.

 

“Brett? What’s going on? Foggy, what is it?” She rushes over, panic on her face.

 

Tears are running down Foggy’s face, and he doesn’t know when they started. “Matt,” he whispers.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Brett says, and Foggy hears a rushing in his ears. He shakes his head and straightens up.

 

“Come in, please Brett. Tell us what happened.” Foggy scrubs a hand across his face and motions Brett into the apartment, closes the door behind him. Brett walks in, sits carefully on the edge of one of the chairs. He’s done this before, he knows what to do. Foggy and Marci sit together on the couch, and she slips her hand into his.

 

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Foggy.” Brett doesn’t look away, holds Foggy’s gaze. “Matt killed himself tonight.”

 

What?

 

“What? What do you mean?”

 

“He hanged himself in his apartment.”

 

“ _ What _ ? Matt wouldn’t- Suicide? He’s  _ Catholic. _ ”

 

“He sent me a message, saying he was going to do it. I dispatched a patrolman who was in the area, came straight round myself. We broke the door down. But we didn’t get there fast enough. He didn’t want you to find him.”

 

Foggy looks away, breathes deeply. He feels rage boiling in his chest. “That fucking  _ bastard _ !” he snaps, jumping to his feet. “He just… Left us? Like that? No note? What the  _ hell  _ was he thinking!”

 

“Foggy bear,” Marci says, half rising from the couch. Foggy raises his hands to deflect her care, and she sinks back down, hands clasped tightly in her lap, looking at him. There’s grief and worry written across her face, but all Foggy feels is anger at his best friend.

 

_ “I know what I have to do.” _

 

Foggy’s tipsy, leaning against Matt. “Oh man, you should have seen his face, Murdock! You obliterated him! Mock trial of the century. I’ve gotta stay on your good side, man.” Matt raises his beer and Foggy knocks his own against it.

 

“What can I say? Keeping a step ahead. Ducking and dodging.” Mat gives him a cheeky grin and takes a swig of beer.

 

“Ducking and dodging? Do you even remember what that looks like, dude?”

 

“Course I do,” Matt says, mock affronted. “I was practically raised in the boxing gym.” The smile slips from his face and he picks at the corner of the label on his bottle, then frowns. Foggy gently probes further.

 

“What’s going on in your head?” 

 

Matt sighs. “I. Hm. Well, this case rested on the ability to demonstrate that he was injured as a result of that punch, right? Pretty straightforward assault.”

 

“It wasn’t that straightforward,” Foggy begins, ready to rehash some of Matt’s arguments and the nuances of the case. Matt waves a hand, stopping him.

 

“It was pretty cut and dried. Anyway, that’s not my point. What if- what if it was something longer term. How would you prove that harm? If it was something that happened in childhood?”

 

Foggy shakes his head. “I’ve got no idea what that has to do with a king hit.”

 

Matt tips his head towards Fogy, then away. “My dad was a tough guy. He tried his best. But.” He pauses, breathes. “What if he was fighting against himself, against a hidden enemy?”

 

“Dude, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

 

“My grandma always said he had the devil in him. What if we have that in common?”

 

Dead dads and theological discussions about the devil are way outside Foggy’s wheelhouse, so he jabs Matt in the side. “You Catholics are obsessed with the devil, man!”

 

The door to the bar swings open, and five of their classmates walk in. “Murdock!” One of them shouts, and Matt’s head jerks up. He pastes a smile on his face and reaches over, patting Foggy on the back. 

 

“Don’t worry about it, Fog.”

 

_ “Dad used to say that he could feel the devil inside him. Maybe he chose me, when Dad died. Maybe he started living in my head.” _

 

Brett offers, but Foggy goes to tell Karen himself. She clings to him. “I always thought he’d die in the suit,” she whispers. 

 

“I know,” is all he can say.

 

Eventually, she pulls away and goes straight for the whisky. “Neat?” He nods numbly, and they drink to their friend. Karen’s crying pretty hard, but Foggy can see the investigator in her, never asleep. “It doesn’t make sense,” she says, passing him a glass and retreating towards the kitchen.

 

Foggy shrugs and swirls his drink, standing in the middle of her apartment. “When does Matt ever make sense?” he says, tightly.

 

She cuts a look at him, razor sharp. “You’re angry.” It’s not a question. He nods. She leans back against the counter and tips her face to the ceiling. “So am I. Did he leave a note?” 

 

“Brett said he did. But I haven’t seen it.” The amber in his glass tones nicely with her hardwood flooring.

 

She snaps her head up. “Oh god, do we have to identify him?” Foggy nods again. “Fuck.”

 

“Tomorrow. Early, before they do the autopsy.”

 

“Autopsy.” It’s a breath of a word. “Why?”

 

“Because it’s suicide. You know that.” But it’s different when it’s a friend who is really family. “I’ll do it. You don’t need to.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Foggy.” She sniffs and wipes her nose. “I’ll be there.”   
  


_ “My thoughts are tangled. Snakes, lying on top of each other. Burrowing through my brain. I can’t remember anything any more.” _

 

Matt’s standing at Karen’s desk, brows furrowed. “I thought Mrs. Patel was due at 11:30?”

 

Karen tilts her head slightly and frowns a little. “No, Matt. She was here yesterday. Remember? We met with her for half an hour, then I left and Foggy joined you.”

 

Matt’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and he jerks slightly like he’s catching himself. “Oh, uh, yes. Of course.” He waves a hand in front of his face. “I guess I should catch up on sleep. Thank you, Karen.” Foggy watches him walk back to his office, and doesn’t miss that Matt’s shoulder brushes the door frame on the way past. Karen’s eyes flick across at Foggy then back down to her keyboard.

 

_ “It’s just twisty confusion. I… I got confused today, in court. Right in the middle of a cross exam I just… couldn’t remember what I had planned to say. What the fuck is wrong with me?” _

 

Karen’s eyes are red-rimmed, her hair stringy, and she’s shuddering slightly. She clearly hasn’t slept, and neither has Foggy. He’d gone home and kissed his child, let his wife hold him while he cried, until the grey light of morning crept into the room. And then he’d risen, showered and gone to identify his best friend’s body. Foggy wraps an arm around her as they stand in the morgue, looking at the shrouded shape on the gurney. 

The ME gives an apologetic smile. “I need to warn you that as Mr. Murdock died by hanging there is some… swelling. I understand that he was taken down quickly, but there are still some changes that you may find upsetting.”

 

Foggy and Karen each nod, and she turns the sheet back. Matt’s face is swollen and purple, but not as bad as Foggy had feared. It’s still a punch to the solar plexus to see him lying there, and Foggy feels a spike in the disorientating mix of grief, denial and anger. He sees himself nod, hears himself say, “That’s him.” She replaces the sheet and Foggy drops his arm from Karen, turns to leave. He sees Brett standing in the doorway, watching with his own sad eyes. Brett may not have loved Matt the way Foggy does, but they got on surprisingly well.

 

Foggy realises that Karen hasn’t followed him, and turns back to see that she’s started asking the ME a question. “Can you test the brain for the presence of Tau?”

 

The ME looks slightly confused. “Tau? I… I don’t understand. Forgive me, but Mr. Murdock was blind, wasn’t he? I wouldn’t think he engaged in contact sport?”

 

Karen tilts her head and smiles tightly. “He lost his eyesight as a child, yes, but before that he spent a lot of time at a boxing gym. And my understanding is that head injuries sustained prior to the age of twelve years are associated with an increased risk of CTE. He’d had some… symptoms in the last year or two that correlate.”

 

The ME looks at her for a moment, then nods. “Yes, we can test for Tau. But I’m afraid that we won’t have results for some time, maybe months.” She turns to Foggy. “Mr. Nelson, I’ll need you to consent.”

 

Foggy looks between the ME’s clinical expression and Karen’s pleading one. “I don’t know what I’m consenting to. What are you talking about?”

 

“It’s a test we can do on brain tissue, looking for a buildup of a protein called Tau. It’s associated with repeated head injuries, often without clear signs of concussion. Recently, we’ve been looking for it in football players, often those who have committed suicide.” 

 

“His brain?” Foggy whispers. He looks again at Karen, and she mouths the word, ‘please’. He looks back to the ME and shrugs, too tired to fight. “Where do you need me to sign?”

 

_ “I’m stuck at the bottom of the well. I can’t see the sky.” _

 

Matt’s collecting papers from his braille printer when Foggy arrives at the office. And he’s whistling while he does it, and that’s… weird. Foggy follows Matt to his office and leans against the door. “How’s it going, man?”

 

Matt flashes him a smile as he shuffles papers on his desk. “Never better, Foggy.” He runs his fingers over the top sheet, and slides it to the bottom of the pile. It looks like a list.

 

Foggy studies Matt a moment. He looks relaxed and genuinely happy, which makes a very welcome change from the Matt who’d been glowering around the office in recent weeks. He nods and straightens up. “Cool. Coffee?”

 

“Please.” Matt takes his pile of papers and slides them into his briefcase, still smiling.

 

_ “Since I decided, I feel so much happier. It’s like a weight has been lifted.” _

 

Foggy is allowed back into Matt’s apartment the next day. There’s police tape across the door, which is hanging askew, the lock broken. Foggy pulls out his phone and numbly rings the locksmith, then slowly walks inside. His gaze is drawn to the rope, still looped over the roof beam. It’s new, unworn. He looks away, and goes to the kitchen to throw out the perishable food. 

 

On top of Matt’s dresser is a box, wrapped in bright paper, with a tag. On the tag  _ ‘To Tim, love Uncle Matt’ _ is written, meticulously printed in Matt’s round and careful hand. (Later, on Tim’s third birthday, they find out that inside the box is a sturdy, green, wooden tractor and Foggy’s heart cracks anew.)

 

Beside the bed Foggy finds Matt’s dictaphone, and underneath it a sheet of braille, with firm lines scored through it. With Karen’s help he translates the braille to discover that it’s a list of accounts to close. They don’t need to give notice to the landlord or cancel the utilities. It’s already done. It’s a knife to the heart.

 

Foggy rewinds the dictaphone a bit, presses play, and Matt’s voice fills the room. “ _ If I’m right about this, then it’s only going to get worse. And that means the people I love will see me… lose it.” _ He presses the stop button and drops the device as though he’s been burned.

 

_ “I can’t do that to them.” _

 

Matt’s set up in the conference room, injured ankle resting on the chair next to him. God knows wrangling crutches and a cane is a nightmare, but once Matt’s in his posse he can get through his daily work with no problems. He hadn’t bothered to phone in sick, just showed up hobbling.

 

Foggy shows Mr. Estes to the door, then comes back and sits down, fixing Matt with a glare. “What happened? And don’t tell me you were tripped up by a dog walker.”

 

Matt shrugs and turns his face towards the window. “I just mucked up a landing, hit the ground awkwardly.”

 

Foggy sits back, startled. “Mucked up a landing? Dude, you’re a parkour legend.”

 

Matt just shrugs again, tension in his shoulders. After a beat he says, “Maybe my fitness is slipping a bit.”

 

Foggy squints. The atmosphere is too tense and Foggy gets the feeling that Matt isn’t telling him everything, which isn’t exactly unusual but nowadays Matt’s generally good at informing him of injuries. He need to lighten the mood, at any rate. So he slaps the table and says,  "Buddy, you're not as young as you used to be. Maybe it's time to hang up the horns." 

 

Matt turns back to him, makes a sad half-hearted, crinkly-eyed smile and just responds, "Yeah, maybe." Foggy doesn’t believe him for a second.

 

_ “I guess there are some things you just can’t fight.” _

 

“You know he’d been researching chronic brain injuries, CTE?” Karen and Foggy are meant to be clearing out the last of Matt’s things but here they are on the couch, splitting a bottle of whisky, again. Marci is worried about how much he’s drinking, but she’s trying to be supportive.

 

“How do you know that?” He looks sideways at her, feeling his stomach tilt nauseatingly. He puts his glass back on the coffee table.

 

“It just came up. I think I mentioned a podcast I’d heard, and Matt already seemed to know a lot about the subject. He was being casual, may have mentioned his dad, but something seemed off.”

 

Foggy blows out a breath. “Yeah, I know he was.” He lets his head flop back against the cushion, and closes his eyes.

 

“He was what?”

 

“Researching. Brain injury. CTE. Tau.”

 

“Did he say something to you?”

 

“Not… before.”

 

“What the hell does that mean, Foggy?”

 

Foggy sighs again and squeezes his eyes more tightly closed. He might as well tell her. She won’t drop it. “It means that he was keeping a diary of what was going on in his head. It means that he knew.”

 

“A diary? What sort of diary?”

 

“An audio diary. On his dictaphone. He was tracking his decline. I found it beside his bed.”

 

“You didn’t tell me.”

 

“I’m sorry. I…” He trails off. 

 

She sighs, and he can tell she’s having to force herself to be gentle. “I’ve spent a lot of time reading about this. It explains his moods, the whole time I’ve known him. The things he would do… at night. Some of the reported injuries.”

 

“I know.” 

 

“Foggy… Can I please listen to it?”

 

Foggy nods, and tears leak out the sides of his eyes.

 

_ “What was I saying? God, I can’t keep anything straight.” _

 

Foggy’s been walking down the street on a bright and sunny day. Today has been good. He hasn’t had to seek refuge in the bathroom, and has even spent long stretches of time without remembering that Matt’s dead. The gut punches are less crippling, now. 

 

He trots up the steps, and holds open the door for elderly Mrs. Foster on her way out, smiling when she thanks him. He pauses for the mail on the way through the foyer. In the pile is a slim letter, with a logo that brings him up short. He walks back out of the foyer, down the steps to the street, and takes a seat on an empty bench.

 

The letter is brief, concise. Yes, Matt had Tau in his brain at a level that would cause impairment. Some resources are offered.

 

Foggy closes his eyes, tilting his head back slightly and listens. Traffic, people walking past, children calling, a siren some way off. The sound of a city that Matt loved so much, gave so much to as the devil. Foggy had worried so often that Matt would die as the devil that he’d never considered that it was the one inside that would take Matt.

 

He thinks of Matt’s voice on the dictaphone, the desperation, pain and sadness.  _ “I know what I have to do.” _ Karen had listened to it quickly, probably copied it, and wordlessly handed it back to him the day after he gave it to her. It had taken him a lot longer to be able to make it the whole way through. He can’t imagine what it was like to live inside Matt’s head.

 

Foggy opens his eyes and folds the letter, carefully slipping it back into its envelope. He’ll give it to Karen tomorrow. Now, it’s time to go home and see his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> Suicide with mention of method. Thoughts of suicide victim, including ideation. Discussion post suicide of motivation.  
> Traumatic brain injury leading to depression, mood changes, cognitive deterioration and co-ordination deterioration.  
> Autopsy and discussion thereof.  
> Grief  
> Ableism
> 
> __________
> 
> The Concussion Legacy Foundation website: https://concussionfoundation.org/  
> Chronic Traumatic Encephalitis (CTE) can't be diagnosed in life, but history can be suggestive. CTE isn't a death sentence and there is help available. 
> 
> I think there's no way Matt can have sustained the history of head injury that he has without suffering long term effects, and many of the described symptoms are things that he already displays.
> 
> I started a [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/runpogorun) so come and follow me.


End file.
